It's okay to Cry
by Blue-10-Spades
Summary: Everybody gets sad sometimes.


**It's okay to Cry**

Everybody gets sad sometimes.

I don't own Rick and Morty.

* * *

She doesn't sleep that night, just cries against her pillow as his words loop in her mind.

Sometimes she wonders what the family would do, how they would feel if she really did just up and leave one night. If she decided to sink into the darkness that sometimes crept up her chest and gripped at her throat and whispered at her to end it all.

Summer had never felt like the unloved child, not really anyway. Her mom and dad had paid equal attention to her and Morty, despite the small amount it was. Perhaps a little more focus went into Morty, but that was typical for a child with a learning disability.

No, Summer had never felt unloved until her grandfather walked into her life.

" _Summer's just a hyper-emotional needy little human…"_

She tears up again and she presses the heels of her palms against her eyes.

"Dammit," She mutters and then pushes off from her bed. Sleep is not coming tonight and she figures tonight is as good a night as any to catch up on her shows. But when she gets to the living room she sees that the kitchen lights are still on. She pauses for a moment because usually Rick turns off the kitchen light as he is usually the last one to go to sleep.

She frowns, thinks about checking the garage but decides not to. She pads over to the couch where she finds the remote and turns on the TV.

Three hour roll over and she looks at the clock to see that it is now two in the morning. Rick has still not made an appearance. She stares at the kitchen, debates on her actions, before releasing a long sigh. She pushes up to a standing position and crosses over to the other room.

"Grandpa Rick," She begins tentatively and pushes the door to the entrance open. The first thing to catch Summer's attention is the garage door. It is open wide, and the cold night air blows into the room. She hits the button at her side and the garage door slides shut slowly.

The second thing she notices is Rick, face down on his work bench. Her heart lurches and she quickly rushes over to him.

"Grandpa Rick?" She asks, dread coiled in her stomach. She presses against his shoulder and gives him a firm shake. He groans beneath her touch and Summer releases a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Rick mumbles something unintelligible and pushes up to look at her. There is orange drool trailing down his chin and his eyes are bloodshot and puffy like he'd just been crying.

"W-what the fuck do you want?" He grumbles, head wobbling on his shoulders. She frowns at his tone and glances around his workbench. She takes in the pile of ash and the broken glass. He notices her wandering gaze and narrows his eyes.

"Summer," He spits, tone acidic. "What do you want?"

"Are you okay?" She asks and then feels stupid because clearly he's not. He shrugs off the hand she still has on his shoulder. It falls to her side despondently and she watches as Rick mutters nonsense beneath his breath.

"Peachy," He says sarcastically and rises unsteadily. His legs nearly give out on him and she lurches forward to reach for his arm. He jerks back, a hard glare on his face that has her pulling back.

"I said I'm fine."

She stares at him, confused by his irate demeanor, and then crosses her arms over her chest. She shifts her jaw, feels wrath pulse on her tongue but swallows it down.

"Okay," She says instead. "Come inside. It's late."

"What are you, my wife?" He gripes. "Jesus—I'm not a—d-d-don't fucking baby me, _Summer_."

His words are unnecessarily sharp and she narrows her eyes.

"What's wrong?" She asks, because there is no way her grandfather is alright. He doesn't answer, just stomps past her and out of the garage. She follows at his heels.

When they enter the kitchen he strides over to the fridge and swings the door open to pull out a beer bottle.

Her mouth slides open before she can stop herself.

"I think maybe you should have some water."

He scoffs, pops off the cap on the kitchen counter, and brings the bottle up to his lips where he chugs it all down. It's empty in three seconds and he repeats the process with another one.

"Grandpa, seriously, I think—"

"I don't give a shit what you think, Summer. O-o-or have you forgotten that?" Her mouth snaps shut at his caustic words and she watches as he pulls out a third bottle and cracks it open.

He only get's a third down before he pulls it away and shuts the fridge door. Summer leans her hip against the counter and she stares him down and he glowers back at her. A stifling silence descends upon them.

"Do you want to talk?" She finally asks because there is definitely something wrong with her grandfather and it frightens her.

He rolls his eyes at her.

"No, Summer, I don't want to talk."

"You should, grandpa. I think you'll feel better if you do."

"Oh, s-so what—you're a therapist now?" He asked snidely. "Here to analyze me and tell me all my fucking problems?" He makes a dismissive sound. "Even if I _wanted_ to talk, Summer, I-I wouldn't—y-you-you'd be the last person I'd want to talk to."

His words cut her sharply and her arms fall to her side like he'd physically struck her. She feels her eyes begin to water and she pushes it down with a fierce frown.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" She asks and Rick takes another chug from his beer before he answers her.

"Nothing's wrong with me, baby." He says and Summer feels her temper spike.

"Then why are you pushing me away?" She yelled up at him.

"Because why should I fucking bother?" He snapped. "You're just going to leave like everyone else does."

"I—me leave?" She retorted, incredulous. "I'm not the one who ran away. That was _you_. You left _me_ behind you asshole! So stop lashing out on me and just fucking—" She breaks off, gives a harsh exhale, and shakes her head. She suddenly feels worn out; emotionally exhausted. She takes a deep inhale.

"What really happened?" She finally asked, her voice devoid of all its earlier heat. He stares at her, face inscrutable. "Between you and Unity. What really happened?"

A sharp twitch of his mouth and he swings his gaze away abruptly.

"I don't want to talk about it." He says flatly.

"Okay," She says. "Then let's talk about earlier. You didn't just fall asleep at your desk, did you?" She sees him shift his jaw angrily.

"Stop poking your nose into my fucking business, Summer." He says, irritation seeping into his words.

"How am I supposed to help you when you won't even talk to me?"

"I don't need your help!" He yelled. "I-I-I've been alive for a long—a fucking long time and I've been doing just fine on my own."

"You don't look fine," She retorted and waved a hand at his unsteady stance, the beer bottle clutched tightly in his grasp and spilling onto the floor. "You look like you're self-destructing, grandpa."

"So what if I fucking am?" He asks sharply. "I want this, okay?"

"What do you mean?" She asks and hesitates. "Are you…are you struggling with depression?"

He chuckles mirthlessly and shakes his head at her like she's a fucking idiot.

"I'm not _struggling_ with depression, Summer. Th-that'd imply that I'm trying to fight. I'm not fighting. I'm fucking _sinking_." He leans forward and his face invades her line of sight.

"Let me fucking _sink_."

"Why are you acting like this?" She asked, looking up at him like she doesn't know who he is anymore. Like she never knew him at all. He scoffed again.

"I'm not acting, this is—this is just me, alright? This is how I really am. Gotta get fucking used to big 'ol bad grandpa, Summer. Or not—I-I-I don't know, I might kill myself soon." Summer balks and he gives a disgusted huff at her expression.

"This is reality, sweetie. Time to open—t-t-time to wake the hell up." He brings his beer bottle up to his mouth and Summer snaps. She lunges forward and wraps her hands around the glass bottle and Rick grunts in surprise.

"Summer!" He hisses as they play tug of war. "Let go of it!"

"No!" She yells back, gritting her teeth as she holds on tightly to the glass. "I'm not going to watch you destroy yourself."

She rips the bottle from his hand and throws it against the floor where it shatters. Broken glass and beer pool along the tile, and Rick looks to it then to her, his face filled with such wrath that Summer finds herself backpedaling.

He latches onto her forearm and yanks her forward angrily and she gives a yelp as pain shoots up to her shoulder. Rick instantly let's go, his face at first surprised before it fills over with remorse.

"Shit, Summer—I—"

"It's fine." She interrupts, hand rubbing against the spot he'd grabbed onto. There's an angry red hand print along her pale flesh and she sees Rick's face fill with self-loathing when he sees it. He shakes his head again, and his hand slides up to press shakily against his forehead.

"Fuck—I—I didn't mean to," He says, unable to meet her gaze. Summer's heart plummets and she feels sympathy well up in her chest.

She reaches forward and curls her left hand into the one that hangs limply at his side. He stops his anxious motions to look down at her.

"I'm fine," She says firmly and tugs on his hand. "Let's watch TV."

He stares at her, his right hand sliding from his face as his mouth curls down into such a sad expression that Summer can't help but turn away.

She pulls at their joint hands until he follows her out of the kitchen and into the living room. When they get to the couch he presses himself into the far corner and Summer sits directly at his side, her left hand still holding his right.

A cartoon is playing on the television now; it shows a little girl hugging a gruff, older man and they seem to be reconciling over something. How apt, she thinks and she turns to Rick to say so. But when she looks she sees that his eyes are watery, his face crumbling like one does when they try to hold in their tears. She furrows her brows, mouth drawing down sadly.

"It's okay to cry, you know." She tells him softly. His expression shifts and he frowns down at her like she's just insulted his mother.

"I'm not fucking crying," He says gruffly, voice coming off strange.

"I…" She wants to tell him she understands, she knows what it's like to be alone, to feel abandoned, to feel like it all needs to end. But those are not the words he needs. "I'll always be here for you when you need me." She says instead and she sees as his mouth trembles.

She squeezes his hand and leans up to kiss him on the cheek and he gives a strangled exhale, turning his face away quickly. She leans heavily into his side, lets him have a moment to himself and turns back to the television.

She can hear him scrub a palm against his face, breath still shaky, and she rests her right hand on his thigh.

"I won't tell anyone if you do," She tells him. "And I'm not going to think less of you if that's what you're scared of. You're still my cool, smart grandpa. Nothing will change. I'm always going to love you—"

"Stop." He cuts her off, voice tight. "Fuck, Summer…I'm—" His body sags, like the weight of the world is finally sinking down on him.

"I don't deserve anyone's love."

Her heart squeezes and she feels her eyes tear up again and she kind of wishes she were better at this. She presses her face against his shoulder, takes a deep inhale of chemicals, metal, burnt wiring, and detergent and feels despair well up in her chest at the idea that her grandfather feels this way. She clenches her eyes, presses more firmly against him, and then turns so that her words are not muffled when she speaks.

"Grandpa, you may be able to control a lot of things," She tells him and her voice cracks stupidly. She pauses to recollect herself and continues. "But you can't control how I feel. I love you, okay. I. Love. You."

It's silent for a long moment and she thinks that he has disregarded her words entirely when suddenly an arm loops around her neck and tugs her close. Rick's face presses into her hair and she hears him sniffle, feels the first then second tear as it rolls down to seep into her scalp.

"I'm—I'm sorry," He chokes out, and she feels a silent sob rack his body. The hand on his thighs comes up to wrap around his waist, fingers curling into the starched white of his lab coat. Her left hand still holds his right and she circles her thumb over a scarred knuckle as he squeezes her hand tightly.

His soft sobs echo in her ears, drowning out the show that plays on the television.

"It's okay." She tells him soothingly, and he drags in a ragged breath. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

He pulls her closer, embrace constricting and desperate.

"I'm not going anywhere."

END.

* * *

I've been feeling pretty sad and I don't know why.


End file.
